“Because dead girls can’t answer questions. And I’m not done asking.”
CHAPTER 5
NIKKI
The room they've taken me to is enormous, easily bigger than most Los Angeles apartments. But I still hate it. Every pristine white wall, every piece of uncomfortable-looking furniture. There's a glass wall, spanning the entire far side, overlooking some stupidly perfect, meticulously manicured garden.
But no laptop, no Wi-Fi, and definitely no phone.
Enzo took it from me like he was disarming a bomb, while I screamed like it was one.
I pace back and forth, my rage escalating. Barefoot, because apparently, they think I'm not a flight risk if I don't have shoes. Or maybe they just prefer their prisoners to be perpetually ready for a pedicure.
“Okay, Nikki,” I mutter, prowling along the wall. “You’re officially in a hostage situation. Captor: one brooding villain with cheekbones and great hair that should be illegal. Weapon of choice: emotional chaos and outdated Wi-Fi protocols. There’s got to be a way out of this.”
I tap the window. Doesn’t budge. I crouch to check for a lock. Nothing. It’s seamless. Shit. Even the garden beyond looks manicured to trap, not soothe.
There's a soft knock on the door. I freeze mid-stride, my heart leaping into my throat. Then I roll my eyes, an automatic, performative gesture even though no one's watching. This is my life now. Performance art for an audience of one. Maybe zero if things don't go my way.
"If that's room service," I call out. "I want a double shot espresso, a warm croissant, and a Glock. Preferably in rose gold."
The door opens, smooth and silent. Great, it's the Enzo guy again. Tall and still utterly silent. He's carrying a tray, as if this is a normal Tuesday afternoon tea party. He glides to the sleek little table near the glass wall and sets the tray down, the soft clink of porcelain on glass the only sound. He says nothing, just stands there.
"You don't talk much, do you?" I ask, crossing my arms over my chest, mimicking his rigid posture. "Is that part of the whole mafia aesthetic? The strong, silent type? Or are you just naturally cold-blooded? Like, did you come out of the womb refusing to engage in polite conversation?"
Still no answer. He turns and walks out without a word, the door closing behind him with that soft, final click.
"Good to see you! Come back to visit soon!" I call after him, my words pitched just loud enough to penetrate the thick wood. "Next time bring some oat milk! What is this, 2005? Who uses dairy creamer these days?"
I hurry to the table and check out the food. A perfect little plate of fruit, a pastry, a tiny cup of coffee that probably tastes like dirt. God, what I wouldn't give for a large cup of American coffee right now.
I touch nothing.
This is how they get you. They feed you to soften you up. Make you think you're not a prisoner when you absolutely are. This is psychological warfare and I'm not falling for it.
Not yet.
I push the tray aside with a disgusted sigh and stand again, resuming my pacing. The silence is a physical presence, pressing in on me.
"I didn't ask for this," I say out loud, hoping he can hear me and to break the silence. I hate silence, I'm not meant to be alone. It always makes the panic louder. "I was filming myself. That's it. One stupid video. One accidental, stupid reel." My voice catches slightly on the last word.
The door opens again, but this time it's not Enzo.
It's him.
The dangerous one with the sexy voice I would love if he wasn't the one who decided I don't get to leave.
"There you are," I say, my words dripping with sarcasm, a performance for his benefit. "Welcome to my fabulous prison. Want a tour? I can show you the toilet that flushes with more enthusiasm than your entire staff."
He closes the door behind him. No smile. No pleasantries. Just straight to business, as if this is some meeting I willingly agreed to attend, some brand partnership I reluctantly signed. He is all cold, efficient authority.
"You're adjusting," he states.
"You mean I haven't started gnawing through the walls yet? Or attempting to communicate with pigeons? Yeah. Gold star for me. What's my prize? A participation trophy made of ancient Roman coins?"
He walks to the glass wall, the same one I was just staring out of, and stands there. I half expect him to light a cigarette for effect, and start monologuing about fate and consequence.
"I want my phone back," I say. "Right now. This whole hostage situation is cute and all, but I'm done playing along."
